


Waiting for a Friend

by scrapbullet



Series: Little Adventures [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Daddy!Coulson, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Mischief, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Beta Read, Papa!Clint, little!Daisy, little!Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Managing to look both genial and a touch furtive, Phil slips a folder alongside the pastries. “I appreciate that you confided in me about you and Natasha,” he says, “and I thought it would be nice if Daisy could have a little time with someone of an appropriate age. I’ve broached the topic with her, and she seems amenable to an introduction.”</p><p>(...)</p><p>Where little Daisy and little Natasha have a play-date, and Clint and Coulson are amused Daddies at their antics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for a Friend

“Have you thought about my proposal?”

Clint blinks owlishly, dazed in that early morning way that indicates a lack of caffeine. And speaking of... “About the... play-date?”

Director Coulson, appearing as unflappable as always, slides an unopened box of pastries across the kitchen counter; no doubt as part of some sort of bribe. As if he’d need one. In the past, all Phil need say is ‘ _jump_ ’ and Clint would ask ‘ _how high?_ ’ These days, despite the little hiccup of a not-quite-death and all that ensued afterwards, there’s a great deal more trust involved. 

It’s good, that trust. It’d been like a punch in the face to learn that Clint had, unwittingly, had a part in the death of his handler - and, even worse, a friend. That Phil is alive is a blessing. 

Even if they don’t get to see each other much, lately.

Managing to look both genial and a touch furtive, Phil slips a folder alongside the pastries. “I appreciate that you confided in me about you and Natasha,” he says, “and I thought it would be nice if Daisy could have a little time with someone of an appropriate age. I’ve broached the topic with her, and she seems amenable to an introduction.”

Eying the box covetously Clint stifles a yawn. Coffee. The first port of call _has_ to be coffee, before the next yawn dislocates his jaw. And maybe one of those pain-au-chocolat before Stark gets his grubby mitts on them - the guy can pack away an entire box with a pot of coffee in minutes, though hell knows where he puts it all. Siphoned off directly to his brain, probably. “Jeez, Phil; just call it as it is, yeah? It’s a play-date.” 

Phil shrugs, and pours them both a cup of coffee from the pot, black as sin and thick as treacle. It’s disgusting stuff; but it’s what they’ve spent years drinking at various SHIELD bases around the world. It was the one, guaranteed constant that comforted, back before SHIELD fell; it’d always be the same old shit, no matter where you were.

Fuck knows how Phil managed to get his hands on it, but Clint’s not exactly surprised that he did.

“Two sugars, no creamer?” Phil inquires.

Clint smirks and, giving in to temptation, plucks a sweet pastry from the box with relish. “How many years, and you still remember? S’enough to give a guy a complex.”

The flaky treat goes well with the hot cup of crap. “I’ll let you know if Operation Play-Date Party is a-go.”

The tension in Phil’s shoulders eases, though it throws the shadows beneath his eyes to light. He, like Clint, is at that point beyond mere exhaustion, and it suddenly occurs to Clint that maybe this isn’t just about Daisy and Tasha letting their hair down with some little play time. 

“That’s all I ask.” Phil says, and sips his coffee.

~

Faced with the idea of meeting someone totally new Natasha finds it difficult to settle into her little head space; expression blank and body rigid in that quiet way that speaks more of the Black Widow than sweet, affectionate Tasha. It takes time for her to loosen up, time spent with Clint brushing and braiding her hair in the hour prior, fingers deftly soothing the social anxiety that thrums beneath the surface. 

It’s the first time Tasha has met another little; it makes sense that she’d be nervous. And, really, she’s generally a well-behaved girl, if prone to acts of mischief.

The time she’d finger-painted a mural on his bedroom wall springs to mind; thankfully the paint was water-based and washed off with minimal scrubbing. 

It had been an awesome picture, though. Clint had made sure to take a photo of it, print it and display it on the front of the fridge, held in place with four magnets shaped like fruit. Tasha had borne her punishment without batting an eyelid - no dessert that night, consequently, though it had been her favourite, and an early bedtime devoid of the promised pillow fight - but the sight of the photo pinned to the fridge had caused her to suck in a shaky breath, fighting back tears.

Clint had made sure to tell her how proud he was of her artistic capability, even if the canvas was a bit inappropriate. 

Tasha winces as Clint inadvertently pulls on her hair, but is quickly soothed with a kiss pressed to the top of her head. “Do you think Daisy will like me, Papa?” Tasha asks, nose crinkling adorably when Clint playfully flicks the tail of the french plait. 

“Pshaw,” Clint grins, drawing his little girl in for a hug. Tasha, for all of her embarrassed protests, snuggles in close. “’Course she will, sweetpea. What’s not to like? You’re _adorable_.” Peppering a giggling Tasha in kisses, Clint hopes it’s true. He’s not sure how far it’ll set Tasha back otherwise.

A knock on the door signals their arrival. Clint sighs, tugs gently on Tasha’s braid, and stands up to answer the door.

The sight that greets him has him biting his lip to stifle laughter. “Sup?”

Phil, clad in casual jeans and a shirt damp with something orange and sticky, has a stern expression on his face as he guides his grumpy little inside. “Hi, Clint. You wouldn’t happen to have a shirt I could change into, would you? This young lady decided that she didn’t want her lunch and that squashing orange segments onto my clothes was a good idea.”

The young lady in question scowls, scuffing her shoes on the floor. “I said I was sorry, Daddy.”

Phil hums, unimpressed. “You did, but you have to take responsibility for your actions. Now, be a good girl and say hi to Clint and Tasha.”

Almost instantly Daisy is transformed from a grumpy little into the personification of sweetness and light. “Hi Mr Clint, hi Tasha. Daddy says I have to make a special effort to be good today because meeting new people is important for my social development.” She pulls a face, tongue sticking out. “Daddy’s are silly.”

Tasha, who had padded over on silent feet, peers over Clint’s shoulder at the newcomers with obvious interest. The smile she graces Daisy with is subtle, but lovely, and Clint’s chest feels tight from some unnameable emotion. It’s a big step, for Tasha to be so open with a stranger, even with her Papa around to make sure she’s safe.

“Why don’t you show Daisy the colouring books I got you both,” Clint says, nudging Tasha onward. The kitchen table is ready for two little’s to have a little fun; a blue plastic table cloth protecting it from sticky fingers. No paints. Not this time. Just chunky crayons in an array of colours, two colouring books and a stack of paper in bright shades. 

Nothing too stressful for a first play-date, but hopefully engaging.

“I’ll be five minutes, tops, kay?”

Daisy, who has already shown herself to be forthright, takes Tasha’s offered hand and is all too happy to lead the way. Chattering cheerfully about the new stuffed animal her Daddy brought her she tugs Tasha - who gives Clint a wide-eyed look, knuckles white in Daisy’s sure grip - over to the table. 

It isn’t long before the two are flicking through the newly acquired colouring books; one exuberant and the other rather more composed.

“You’ve got your hands full with that one,” Clint muses, beckoning Phil through to the bedroom. Digging through the drawers for suitable attire he grins shamelessly at Phil’s resulting sigh; being a parent to an energetic little is hard, but rewarding, work.

Hell, Clint’s had his fair share of nights spent watching over Tasha, so as to be a few steps away when those nightmares wake her screaming.

“Daisy is... a handful,” Phil concedes with rueful smile, unbuttoning the ruined shirt to pull on the offered henley. “But she wasn’t always. It took a lot of work to get her out of her shell... and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Clint nods. “They’re worth it.” 

“That they are-”

In the kitchen, something hits the floor with a sharp crack, and sock-clad feat thump on the carpet as Tasha, red-cheeked and looking a little embarrassed, peeks around the open door. Daisy is behind her, guiltily stuffing broken crayons into her pants pockets in an attempt to hide them and standing pointedly in the way of both adults glimpsing the mess in the kitchen.

“I broke the cookie jar, Papa,” Tasha confesses, contrite as can be.

Daisy, idly rubbing at the mess of on her hands, grumbles good-naturedly. “I told you I could have reached it myself!” She looks to her Daddy with a scowl. “I’m a much better climber, Daddy, Tasha could have gotten hurt!”

Phil sighs, and although he does his best to look stern the hints of amusement in his eyes gives the game away. “So you decided to corral poor Tasha into a cookie heist, hmm? What have I said about waiting until snack time, Daisy?”

Daisy huffs. “Sorry, Daddy. Sorry Mr Clint.”

Biting back laughter Clint strokes Tasha’s hair, ruffling it in affection. “No harm done, so long as you remember to _ask_ next time. Just... not today.” Both Tasha and Daisy’s faces fall, dejected. A little punishment, given the crime, but it’s not like Clint wont give in eventually; he’s far too much of a soft touch. “Why don’t you go show Phil the pictures you drew at the table whilst I clean up?”

Seemingly already the ring-leader of the two, Daisy slips one hand in to Tasha’s - the other gripping her Daddy’s wrist - pulling them insistently out of the bedroom. The lack of cookies is already forgotten. “I coloured in a robot for you, and Tasha did one for her Papa but I think hers is best because it’s blue and you know how much I like-” Her chattering a light, childish refrain that eases the pang of loneliness within. 

Phil nods along genially, and, as Clint sets about sweeping up the shards of ceramic from the decimated cookie jar, he hopes he’s done the right thing in expanding their family of little’s.

Given the small smile on Tasha’s lips, Clint believes maybe he has.


End file.
